


Disiecta membra

by lordhellebore



Series: Kinktober [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 06:25:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16191905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/pseuds/lordhellebore
Summary: Theon knows he's safe now - but every now and then, he needs a reminder, no matter how much he hates it.





	Disiecta membra

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kinktober day 2 & 3: begging, knifeplay

The blade is cool against his too-hot skin. Theon grits his aching teeth as it wanders over his left shoulder, then down his back, tracing each and every scar, scratching lightly, always threatening, but never quite cutting – not yet. It’s agonisingly slow, and what’s worse, almost sensual, and all too familiar. His knees hurt from kneeling on the floor, and he’s shivering and sweating in equal measure. He _hates_ this, hates how –

“Scared?”

He jumps at the whisper and the hot breath in his ear and can’t suppress a sound that’s half gasp and half whimper. He doesn’t answer, though.

“I asked if you’re scared.” The blade is just above the small of his back now, pressing against his skin so firmly he knows it’ll draw blood if he moves even the slightest bit. Still, he stays silent.

“Obviously not enough.”

A few quick motions, and the blade is at his throat, tip pointed upward, ready to thrust into his mouth from below.

“Answer the question. Are. You. Scared.”

He can’t nod, can’t move or he’ll be injured. Slowly, very slowly, he relaxes his jaw.

“I won’t be patient forever.”

Sweat is trickling down his forehead and into his right eye, but Theon knows better than to try and wipe it away. “Yes,” he breathes though his teeth; he doesn’t dare open his mouth. “I’m scared.”

“Good.” The pressure of the knife relaxes the tiniest bit. “ _How_ scared?”

The answer is _very_ , but he’s not ready to say it.

“You’re stubborn today, aren’t you? I know a remedy for that.”

Inch by inch, the blade travels down his neck, over his Adam’s apple, tracing the line of a clavicle, then further down to the nipple that’s left. Somewhere along the way, his teeth have begun chattering, and he knows it will make things worse.

“Well?”

The slow circles around the areola are bad, but it’s worse when the blade is scraped carefully over the nipple itself, from one side to the other, then back again, and again. The damn nipple is hard – Theon knew it would happen, and he hates how his heart is pounding from more than fear now.

“I’m waiting.” The scraping stops, the knife twisting slightly to the side, just in the right position to cut, but he won’t, he _can’t_ –

There’s a sharp nick, and a droplet of blood runs down his chest. “ _Don’t_ make me ask again.”

“I – I’m –” The words won’t come; his teeth are still chattering, clicking together painfully, and it’s hard to breathe in between that and trying to speak. The fingers on both his hands begin twitching, making them flutter grotesquely at his sides – they always do when he’s nervous – and he clenches them into fists and tightly presses them against his thighs.

Another prick, another small droplet of blood.

“A – a _l-lot_! I’m – _please_ , I – I’m…” He’s cut off by a sob, but it was enough, the pressure disappearing once more.

“Very well. Now…” The blade goes lower, and it’s thin enough so its tip can disappear into Theon’s bellybutton. Sweat is running down between his shoulder blades; it itches, making him want to squirm, but he forces himself to stay still. “Tell me…”

He doesn’t want to tell anything, say anything ever again; in the end, it doesn’t matter, it never matters what Theon says – he’ll be hurt all the same.

“What would you do…” It’s travelling lower still, and Theon can’t help but lower his head and look, watch with growing nausea as it trails down his cock – if it were just a little sharper, the pressure just a bit firmer, it would slice the skin open evenly in the middle. “…to make it stop?”

 _Anything_. He’d do anything to make this stop – most of all the reaction of his body, the slow swelling of his cock as the blade keeps grazing it while he still half expects to wet himself with fear. It’s disgusting – _he’s_ disgusting, and he _deserves_ this, deserves the knife, the threat of being cut open, deserves –

“Tell me. What would you give?”

Anything. A night of sleep. A week of meals. _A finger_. Even as the thinks it, he feels himself lose control, fists uncurling, hands flailing against his thighs. But there’s no sound except his heaving breaths, and then the blade is ghosting over his balls in agonising slowness and –

“Tell me!”

 _Stop_. His voice won’t obey him. The knife is at the base of his prick, which is now painfully hard, and for a moment, he almost wishes it would cut, to punish the stupid fucking thing for doing this to him!

“Stop.” He knows the second it’s out that it was close to inaudible; he’s a shivering, jerking, gasping mess, the knife is teasing and threatening, and it’s too much, too hard; this time he can’t, he’ll be cut for real, and he can’t –

“ _Say_ it!”

“ _S-stop!_ ” It’s a shriek that tears through the fog in his mind and stings in his throat. “No! Stop, stop, _please_ don’t, _please stop_!”

The pressure of the blade is gone in an instant; there’s a clatter of metal on stone, and he goes stiff as arms wrap around him –

“Theon.”

 _Robb_. This is Robb, it’s got to be, because _he_ would never call him _that_ – it’s Robb, and he _stopped_ , because Theon _told him to_.

“It’s all right, love. It’s over. It’s over. You’re safe.”

He is. He’s safe. The knife is gone; there’ll be no cuts and no pain, nothing, just because Theon wanted it, because _he said so_. There’s a sound that’s half laugh and half suppressed scream as Theon’s legs give in under him and he sags against Robb; his hands are still twitching as he reaches out for Robb and pulls one of his hands towards his groin. He can’t hold back the tears any longer when Robb touches his prick, warm fingers wrapping around it, pumping slowly, all the while murmuring that it’s all right now, it’s over, everything’s all right, Theon is safe. He squirms against Robb, moaning in between sobs of relief and disgust with himself, hands clawing at Robb’s chest as he finally comes and slumps back against him.

For a while, they’re silent as Theon regains his breath, his pulse slowing down, tears drying on his cheeks and the fabric of Robb’s shirt. In the end, Robb shifts a little; there’s a soft cloth wiping at Theon’s groin and stomach, then Robb’s hand slips into his hair, petting gently.

“All right?”

Theon nods. “Thank you. I – when I said it – I wasn’t – maybe…” He draws a shaky breath, but he can’t make himself say it. Robb knows anyway.

“You weren’t sure if I wouldn’t maybe go on regardless.”

Again, he nods; it’s nonsense, and he feels ashamed for it, but Robb only kisses his forehead.

“I’ll always stop when you tell me. Always.”

It’s true, and yet there’s something inside him that tells him that just maybe next time…maybe when they kiss or touch, or when Robb lies pinned beneath him as Theon rides his cock, he won’t stop when Theon tells him. Won’t care or listen, because in the end it doesn’t matter what Theon says – he’ll be hurt all the same.

He should be better. It’s been seven years, and he should believe Robb, shouldn’t be so broken and _selfish_ and –

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ …” For needing this, and for making Robb do it. He knows it’s hurting him to see Theon like this. To do this to him, every time.

“Me too,” Robb whispers back. He’s pressing more kisses to Theon’s temples and forehead, his embrace is warm and he’s so gentle; it seems impossible that just a few minutes ago, he held a knife to Theon’s throat.

Theon shudders, burrowing deeper against Robb. “Stop. Please stop.” He knows – _almost_ knows – that Robb will do it.

Robb’s head moves back immediately, his arms around Theon falling away so it’s only Theon now who is still holding on. He smiles against Robb’s shirt in relief. “...’s all right. Can you hold me again?” It’s silly; he’s got his proof, got it a thousand times over, today and so many times before. “I just…I had to…”

“I know.” Robb wraps his arms back around him, firmer than before, and places one more kiss on Theon’s forehead. “I’ll always stop when you tell me. Always. But I don’t mind this if it helps.”

“I know.” _Almost_. And that, too, is something Robb knows.

It shouldn’t be like this, _he_ shouldn’t be like this – but it is what it is, and maybe that’s enough. Maybe there will be a day when Theon won’t feel anymore like he’s a vase that got shattered and badly glued back together, with some pieces missing and others never quite fitting, as if they’d been put back in the wrong places, sharp edges chafing him sore and sometimes drawing blood. Maybe the edges will dull over time, and maybe the holes will fill with something else, or at least some of them. Until then…

“Bed?” Robb interrupts his thoughts.

Theon nods and doesn’t protest as Robb hoists him up and carries him towards the bed.

Until then, they’ll go on as best as they can, one day and one ‘stop’ at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> Disiecta membra = scattered limbs (Latin)


End file.
